


Whisper Whisper ‘I’ll Be Okay’ Whisper Whisper ‘But Not Today’

by GothMoth



Series: Phantom Phang Phucking Phreaking Phantastical Phabulous Phic Phight Phics 2.0 (The 2020 Edition) [9]
Category: Danny Phantom
Genre: Angst, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Martyrdom, POV Outsider
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-11
Updated: 2020-04-11
Packaged: 2021-03-01 19:08:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,088
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23602099
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GothMoth/pseuds/GothMoth
Summary: At this point in Danny’s half-life the only thing that could possibly tempt him any more is the chance to be okay, even if it’s for only just a little while.
Series: Phantom Phang Phucking Phreaking Phantastical Phabulous Phic Phight Phics 2.0 (The 2020 Edition) [9]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1685341
Comments: 10
Kudos: 125
Collections: Phic Phight!





	Whisper Whisper ‘I’ll Be Okay’ Whisper Whisper ‘But Not Today’

**Author's Note:**

  * For [redwoodroots](https://archiveofourown.org/users/redwoodroots/gifts).



They were an incorporeal thing. A thing of mists and whispered voices. Something that exists through the branches of trees and grazing over small ponds. Something that wondered, always wondered. Endlessly. And in their endless searching, with claws of mist that could coil into any mind, they would find those who would fall into their voice. The voice they created from the mind they had dug their figurative claws into. They never cared who, why, when, or how. It hardly mattered. They simply _wanted_ and so they gathered. Collected. 

It was by pure chance they found themselves in the NeverWoods of Amity Park. They hardly cared about the names. What they did care about was the lack of creatures here. No mortal creatures nor dead ones. The plants were the only things; and they couldn’t lead such things anywhere. They would have left, moved on with a huff. But they didn’t, because someone, _someone’s_ , came. This place was so barren that the sudden appearances had intrigued them. So they reach for the three and was pleased to find they should be so easy to collect. 

The three _wanted_ to leave really. All of them wanted freedom. The three came here to get away, if only for a time. They weren’t going to be leaving. They learned the name's of their new pets eagerly. Sam and Tucker and Danny. Danny was strange, they had heard so. They’d leave him for last.

Sam wanted an existence lacking rules, sought a level of anarchy. Yet also sought control and ownership of others. Even plants and death she wished to bend to her will and desires. She had clearly lived a life of manipulation and refused to stand for it anymore. Easy to work with truly. Easy to manipulate and overtake. They craft a voice that’s strong, but sickly sweet in its future plans for trickery. She would make a wonderful dead, truly would. They are happy with her, though they feel something of foreboding. She was far too dark and damaged for a _child_. 

Tucker similarly wanted freedom from rules, less anarchy and more being untouched by rules forged by others. He wanted domination, obedience; to be pampered. And women, he wanted a lot of women. That was almost pathetically easy to work with. The voice they weave in simple and basic. It’s sultry and submissive; yet with promises of power. He’s cautious though, he’s been manipulated like this far more than once. He wears down quickly though. It’s clear his life is one of being ignored, and he too was too damaged for a child. This was another broken child. They mentally frown. 

So Sam and Tucker’s voices were pretty typical, they think. Nothing new or complicated for them. Easy work, easy vocal crafting. Even if the targets were a bit broken. They expected similar for Danny. So they had let their voice craft a bit absently while they had inspected their two new catches. Tuning back into Danny, to the voice that had been craft. They expected a typical voice. A rather normal voice. Stilling their mists at how that created voice was struggling, practically fighting with the boy’s mind. So they sink into him more. Search out more to coax with. Paying close mind to what their crafted voice whispers, moves to actively partake more than they normally might. And then they notice. 

Danny’s voice? This is just...it’s not _right_. It’s not _okay_. For a child, for someone so... _young_. All he wants, all that lures him...all it is, is to _rest_. The promises of freedom from hurt and pain for even a moment. It’s such a different kind of freedom. One no child or even adult should yearn for so. Gentle promisings to grant him the chance to not hide anymore, to not be coated in layer after layer of paranoia anymore. The only thing the voice they create for him can whisper in any way that’s actually tempting to the small boy; is for him to be _okay_. Not good, not happy, not healthy. Nor wealth, nor fame, nor love. Just okay. Alright. Fine. 

They frown, mist coiling around the boy to cradle him. They’ve heard the rumours of this one. The child with stars in his eyes, a fighting spirit, and a sharp lighthearted tongue. Oh how they, all the ghosts and mortals, were wrong. Oh so wrong. And...blind. 

They want to cry. What happened to this child?

They loved leading others astray. To be lost in their misty fray. But this...this just _hurt_. To whisper sweet nothings that only promised ‘you’ll be okay...someday’ and ‘I have something that can...help your burdens’ and ‘everyone will be safer this way, so come’; is something they can’t take pleasure in. This child is just so...broken. And...and they _will not_ _stand for it._

They coil around his limbs more, trying to coax the muscles there to move, to follow their created voice. So often the voices they weave, whisper nothing but lies and fanciful fabrications. But this time, they _feel_. And thus, they _care_. So they will give this boy his ‘okay’. Even if - _Ancients_ \- even if he should want _so much more_. They won’t lie to him. They won’t give him empty promises. He will wander with them yes. But he will be okay. And he will _stay okay._ He won’t hurt anymore. They won’t let anything into their mist that could harm him. 

So they poke and prod his self and mind. See what would make him achieve his ‘okay’. And that too, hurts. He’s so...selfless. So caring. So protective.

Oh Ancients, he’s a martyr. Everyone has _made him one_. Even _he has_. 

This child. He hurts so others will not. He cries in the hopes that others won’t have to. He gives and gives and gives. The only way, it seems, for him to even consider allowing himself anything close to okay, is if everyone else is better than okay. Always better than okay. 

They huff. Well then. They can’t give him that. No one can. No thing can. Because that’s, that’s _just not possible._ Everyone suffers. Everyone’s supposed to. Life and death. Regardless of existence, if someone exists they must suffer. But, as they run some thicker mist through his hair (to soothe the bruises there if only for a moment) they think -no, they _know_ \- no one should suffer _this much._ This consistently. And definitely not so...alone. Those other two were with him through all of this, no wonder they were damaged. But that didn’t mean he wasn’t alone. Those two were with him, but weren’t really _with_ or _there_ for him. They feel slightly less pleased with how those two were selfish and thus easier to manipulate and coax. 

Well they can’t just not make him okay. They’ve already decided they’ll make him okay. The boy claimed this town, protected it. So if they make everyone safe, take the whole town into their mists, he’ll rest. Let himself heal. So they whisper, stir up the voice they created just for him. For the hybrid of life and death. Whisper that _everyone_ will be happy, safe, and fulfilled. Whisper that it’ll be alright, they won’t need his help. Won’t need his body as a shield. Or his voice as a distraction from chaos. Or his power as a sword to strike down every threat; no matter how minor or even if likely harmless. 

He doesn’t believe them, of course he doesn’t. He’s so seeped, so soaked, in paranoia. How could he, how did he, trust anything? They sigh, the answer was simple. He didn’t. Not truly anyway. And his history, what he could and couldn’t consciously remember of it, had proven that he shouldn’t. _Everything_ seemingly _always hurt_ _him_ or others. Even the other two. So they guess it’s reasonable he doesn’t believe them. Annoying, but reasonable. They’ll just have to prove it. Show him that his little lair is safe and happy. Is filled with its happy citizens. Who are comfortable, happy, and very much safe. If they have to fabricate an entire dimension and nestle the mortals there, to do that. Then they will. They have the power to; after all. 

Whispering, ‘look and see. Safety, warmth, hope, love. All of it, it’s here and it’s theirs. So what of you? Will you come? It’s okay, it’ll be okay. I’ll make pie’. And they smile, soft and almost sweet, when he sags a little; leans into their mists a little. And yet...

He turns his head out, to look past where both he and they know the town’s border would be if the view of it wasn’t obscured by mist, and says, “but there are others. There are others out there. If I am not needed here, not needed now. I am needed there. Needed elsewhere”.

The voice hums, as if contemplating, before it whispers back, ‘and there are others to help them. Rest small one. Let yourself go sweetly, knowing that you did well and they are safe. Stay with me, dear child’. They watch and send him soothing enticing scents through their mist. Part of them wants to tell him to not let the world tear him apart. At least not any more than it already had. But they know he won’t hear of it. Won't care that he’s damaged far beyond repair. That he’s ripping apart at the seams. 

He shakes his head weakly and takes slow steps forward, pulling away from them. Refusing to following them. “I can’t rely on that. Can’t be sure of that. True or not. Others will age and die. Leave things unprotected. I am forever. I am for them. _Always_ ”. 

They cling their mists to him, coax in every way they know. In one way, it is because they’ve decided they _care_. But in another, it is simply that they want him. None should escape their mists. And this one, if he leaves now. If he walks away, walks out. They’ll never have him. Because, because he will self destruct. The world will obliterate him. It’s too cruel, and he’s suffered too much. He’s not even holding himself together as it is. His body hardly any better. But he’s also right, he’s something immortal. His body will continue on, even if he’s in ruin. He’ll become a husk for the sake of everything and everyone else. And they have little interest in empty husks. A corpse with the facade of existence. 

The voice whispers again, ‘I’m here, don’t you fear. Just let go, everything will be safe. Rest, recover. Won’t you give yourself that mercy? We all grow best with rest’, huffing soundlessly to themselves before tweaking the voice to appeal in another way, ‘grow in power, in stability, in the hope you can give. Pick up your pieces, to sharpen into finer knives and stronger shields. How can everything be okay, become okay, stay okay; if you are not so yourself? Heal, and I promise, everything will heal with you’. 

He stops and leans limply against a tree, eyes glazing over a little, “that is not my place. To...be okay. To heal. I know that. I’ve learned that”, he laughs and it hurts to hear just how hallow of a sound it really is, “I’m a suffered thing”, he sighs and they coil over him more, sensing his failing will while he speaks once more, “but, I guess, you can only push a stalled out car so far. Still, I hear of and know of no others who could take my place in the world. Even for a little while”. 

They do their best not to growl as he pushes off the tree and takes a few steps forward. It’s slower going, there’s hope. Hope they’ll get to keep him for a time at least. He’s strong, in every sense of the word. He’ll fight back their mists someday, ignore their finely crafted voice in time. But they will do something for him, do something...good for a change. It was actually almost...nice? They cared, they were helping. That wasn’t in their nature typically, but it was nice. 

Whispering almost song-like, ‘who’s to say you would know of others that help? Not many truly know of you, sweet child. They are out there, I swear it. Let it be, let them be. Let others carry on’.

“And if they can’t? When they can’t?”.

The voice hums, ‘then return you shall. You can come again, carry them and everything again. Rise to the role you know again. Return renewed. Return rested. Return okay, and all the better for it. To hold out a helping hand with a smile so bright and true, that they mend too’. 

If they have to chase their mist after him, taking everyone around him for eons to come into their mist. Simply for the chance to have him and for him to have his ‘okay’. Then that’s what they will do. Purpose. That’s why this was a bit nice. Having a purpose. Beyond just spreading and claiming. But they’re are far more pleased to take him now. Far more pleased with how he stops walking and looks back to the thick of them. To the direction of their created voice. His eyes hold so much pain, they can’t help their form, their mist, sparkle with something like tears. He seems to understand, seems to see their sadness. 

He speaks softly, “that would be nice, wouldn’t it? But reality isn’t that kind. It never is. I only wish...”, he trails off and shakes his head before continuing, “no, I guess I don’t. The less kindness I know, the more everyone else does. And also I guess you have your points”. 

He sits down and stares into them, so the voice hums sweetly, ‘when you must leave me, you will leave with fire anew under your feet and ice steaming from guiding fingertips. To burn away any threat, and ice to cool any searing pains. So, for now, why not live, darling child. Just live. Just _live_ ’.

He chuckles brokenly, “ah, living. I only kinda do that. But, you know, sorta a pun. So I guess that does it. Doesn’t it?”, before laying on the grass. Staring up at the mist-covered sky, nearly petting the thick mist coiling around his fingers. 

They decide to whisper again after a while, they’ve never had to work this hard to entice someone before, ‘come now, won’t you? Allow yourself this, it only stands to help. The world will be at peace, everything will be alright. Let your heart be one and the same. It and you would have so much more to give then. A well to never dry up. A night sky of endless stars. A future of hope’. 

He props himself up on his elbows and stares at his stained shoes. A colidascope of red, green, and black leather, “you can’t help, not truly, why must you try?”.

‘Let me ease your pain. Let yourself stay with me. Be together with rest and nights light. Grow even more into a being of hope. Grow into a well-known thought and quiet word. Become a battle cry from days rest. Like a daffodil grown in fertilised soil and caressing sun. No need to say goodbyes, you’ll come back when they call you. And they will be safe and all the better for it’.

He gets up and shakes off his ratty shredded pants, “and this you promise? Do you?”. 

The voice hums while their mist coils and tugs at his limbs, pushing a pulling breeze through his tousled hair, ‘that I do, child. Come’. 

Often when beings give and follow, they’ll either walk-on in a dazed haze. Beautiful, sweet, and eternal till they die or fade away. Or they begin to run, as if racing to all their promised lies and sweet nothings. Sam was a dazer. Tucker a runner. Yet Danny walks loose, seemingly carefree if they not for the hurt they see under his surface. He could stop, turn and leave, at any time. He had the will for it, and lacked the carrying for his own self. He wasn’t truly deeply swayed by their created voice, by Its whisperings. Yet he follows anyway, he follows and they know why. He saw that they cared, that his state hurt them on some level. Minor as it was. He gave his everything for everyone. Even them it would seem. They would help him, push him towards his okay. They could do this one decent task with their existence. 

They lead him to a little field, making the mist softer to the touch in a smile as he rests upon the cold boulder in the centre. Curling their mists around the petals of white flowers swaying gently in the breeze. Whispering softly, ‘how do you want your garden to grow, child with eyes of centuries aged stars?’. 

He snuggles the rock slightly but stares to the sky, they make flower petals float in the air, “you’re too late for that, I’m afraid. But let it grow eyes, to watch and know the world. If you’re going to make petals to coat, make them to coat the world protectively instead of me. Make roots nourish others, not me. I need it not”. 

Regardless they give him a blanket of flower petals, he won’t sleep of course. But they could serve to heal him with the soft petals and clinging pollen. Sweet scents and misty morning-like dew. But they shudder, as he’s simply just too still. Every petal frozen in its place as a source of great power makes itself known. 

They chose to do nothing as the child-like timekeeper stares at the boys resting face, with a frown on Its own face. The timekeeper looks to them then, to the thickest part of their mists; the core of their being. Speaking with a voice void of emotion but yet not unkind, “you will release him now”. It’s not so much a demand as a simple statement. An unavoidable fact. A future that simply must and will pass regardless of any action or inaction. 

They know not how to speak themselves truly. Only how to create voices. But they can not access this being, the timekeeper, one of many they are barred from. They can mould for It no voice. It understand this, as It understands everything. So they make a simple mash-up of voices. They hope it sounds unpleasant, they do not wish to give up the boy. ‘ **A** nd _w_ hy **is** th _at_?’.

The adult-looking time keeper’s expression remains unchanged, “it is what must be”. 

‘Wh **y?** Ha _s h_ e not _hu_ r **t** e _n_ ou **gh**? Do **es** he de **ser** v _e_ neith _er r_ es **t** nor hap _ **pine**_ ss?’.

Its frown deepens then, “it is not a matter of deserving. It is his fate. His place. His role. You and even I, have no place to change it. No power to”. 

They are a bit baffled by this, ‘yo **u** a _ **re**_ the o **ne** who k _ **e**_ eps **tim** e”. 

“That matters not”. 

They bristle, ‘ **he** is ju _st_ **a** ch ** _ild_** ’. 

“Be that as it may, it changes nothing. It is so often the young that must suffer for the failings, whims, and cruelties of others”. 

They coalesce and coil, attempting to push the timekeeper away from the boy they’ve claimed. They don’t honestly expect it to work, they’d have to be a fool to think it would. ‘The **n** l _et_ a _no_ the **r** take **t** h ** _ei_** r tu _ **rn. H**_ e’s had _en_ ou **g** h. he _’s h_ a **d** _t **oo** much_. Yo ** _u m_** ust have **se** en a _s_ much _**yo**_ ursel **f** ’. 

They aren’t surprised when many parts of themselves freeze and reverse to their previous position, away from the powerful being. It doesn’t look happy to be doing that though, “I’m aware. More than any would hope”.

‘T _ **he**_ n w **h** -’.

“He’s needed as he is. There are no others. Not now, not ever”, the time keep clangs the base of Its staff against the stone, sending all their mist blasting away from the stone and the boy. Flower petals being flung out of sight and flowers blackening, curled up and charred. They hide and slink through the trees, watching and nursing their wounds. 

This wasn’t right, wasn’t fair. But what are they to do? They can’t defend their claim over the boy, not against this being. They should just leave, just...not care. But it’s too late for that. The boy was just so damaged, so beaten. Couldn’t the timekeeper let him rest? Let them have him, rest him, for even a day? Did the world really need someone to suffer so much and so constantly? If you ask them, then the world doesn’t really deserve to have its ‘need’ met. If this is the price someone has to pay. That he can’t even rest from. It’s just not right. 

They shiver then, though resists the urge to attack the timekeeper. They would just serve to obliterate themselves. While It pushes the boy to sit up, speaking almost softly, “time to wake up, Daniel”.

“ClockWork?”, he rubs his eyes, the slight glazed over look to his eyes clearing. Brushing off their claim to him. 

The timekeeper nods, “you expected another?”.

The boy looks around, they make themselves invisible. Not wanting to be seen by his eyes. Having failed him in a sense, and having broken their promise; which for once they truly meant. They had a feeling the boy was both unsurprised and bothered, mostly by the breaking of a promise. 

He shakes his head and looks to the time keeper, “in a different kind of life I guess I would have”, shrugging, “and probably would have been right”. 

The timekeeper smiles slightly -they can read the sadness behind it if only just barely- and It gestures back towards the town, “maybe, maybe not. Your mom’s making cherry tarts”. 

The boy laughs sadly a little and stands, “guess I can’t afford to miss that”.

“No, surely not”. 

The boy nods, sticks his hands in his pockets and walks off. The timekeeper stays for a bit, watching him go. And they understand then. The timekeeper, It cared for the boy. More than they did. Much much more. The timekeeper glances to their core, as if to acknowledge and confirm that fact, before It disappears. 

They float their self closer to the boy, keeping distance and silence now though. There’s nothing they can do. They really should go. Should forget about this town. The boy. His friends. Maybe earth altogether for a while. They're tempted to retreat when he speaks up again, “I know you’re there. I know, I know you meant something by all this. Even though I warned you so, you tried regardless. Don’t be sad. It’s not the end of the world, so don’t blame yourself. I’m someone who can not be saved. I’ll bring light to this world, always”, he shrugs and looks behind him, around where they are, “thank you for trying though. You should move on now, there’s no place for flowers to bloom here or places to rest”.

They stilled then, watching him continue walking off, before fleeing from the town and the battered boy. Releasing the other two as the go. The two that though not truly _there_ for the boy, were good for him. 

They cried that night. Over a boy they hardly knew. One lost to time and the world and chosen duty and everything that touches him. Knowing that even they had hurt him. Had taken from him. Had chipped his battered mind a little bit more. Had added to his burdens, to his suffering. With hope they tried to give. With words that they so often formed from lies, that they promised wouldn’t be lies this time. No, for him they were true. Were supposed to be true. But they, even with all their power. All the existences taken into themselves; ghost and mortal alike. Couldn’t make his days any less cold and lonely. Couldn’t change him for the better. Couldn’t make him even an ounce closer to okay. To what he deemed to be ‘okay’. Because it wasn’t even close to what any other creature considered ‘okay’. 

**End.**

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt Creator: Redwoodroots  
> Prompt: there’s a ghost that takes the form of mist and if you are in the mist and follow the voices you’ll be lost forever, and each of the trio hears voices trying to lure them away


End file.
